


Should Have Known Better

by el3anorrigby



Series: Not Broken, Just Bent [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Arguments, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more Napoleon tries to rationalise things, the more irrational he becomes. It is definitely easier to jump to conclusions than go through the process of finding out why his partner is behaving the way he is.</p><p> --<br/>The one where Illya has been acting strange and Napoleon thinks the Russian is having second thoughts, fears Illya will bolt again out of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should Have Known Better

“We have a couple of days to ourselves before flying off to New York. You coming over later?”

Napoleon’s voice makes Illya look up from the stack of paperwork on his desk.

They are in their office and Napoleon has just entered the room after meeting up with Waverly for a quick discussion regarding their next assignment. He is leaning against the door facing Illya, sees his partner frowning slightly at him as if searching for an answer to his question. It is not a particularly hard one, but Illya seems to have some difficulty answering him. 

“I don’t think so. There is a lot I have to finish before New York,” he finally says, eyebrows still knitted together.

Napoleon tilts his head.

“Okay then,” he mutters, to some extent disheartened at Illya’s hesitant reply.

Because it is not the first time Illya has been acting like this around him lately. 

For the past week or so, whenever Napoleon had asked him over to his place, or had invited him to dinner, or even simply to have a couple of drinks together, Illya had only nodded slowly, saying _’yes, maybe, I’ll have to see first, Cowboy’_ and that was that. He generally is in another world, at least not in Napoleon’s world. He is still on normal terms with Gaby, though. The usual attentive conversation when he is with her and he is still just as concentrated in their meetings with Waverly. Napoleon had noticed the change after they had returned from their last assignment in Delhi. Illya has become distant, hard to catch, difficult to talk normally to. He zones out during their conversations and is less attentive than he usually is.

And Napoleon is getting increasingly annoyed and worried that something is wrong somewhere. He worries that Illya is again having second thoughts about their relationship. Things have been going on smoothly for months but now Napoleon cannot help but fear the worse.

“Illya, if there’s anything bothering you, you would tell me, right?”

“Why are you saying this?” Illya asks, averting his gaze from Napoleon as he flicks absentmindedly through his work, seemingly looking intently for something. But Napoleon recognises the carelessly nervous, clumsy moves and he is sure as hell Illya is not really paying attention to what is written on any of those documents in his hand.

“Because you’ve been avoiding me lately, that’s why,” he answers bluntly, his mood spiralling downwards at Illya’s obvious display of blissful ignorance.

“I’m not ignoring you, Cowboy. I just have a lot to do.”

Illya’s voice is a little edgy and Napoleon can tell he is starting to get annoyed. The tick of his index finger against the desk is getting more pronounced. Seeing that there is no real need to further prolong Illya’s agitation, the American shakes his head and sighs demonstratively.

“Okay, whatever you say, Peril.”

Sensing the disappointed tone in Napoleon’s voice, Illya gets up from his chair at once, tries to clear things up with his partner who is now getting ready to leave the small office space that they share.

“You do understand this, Cowboy, when I say I have things to do? Waverly would not be happy if I do not finish this before we leave for New York. I’m in charge of this paperwork, remember? And you, yourself, hate to do this. You hate writing mission reports.”

“Of course,” Napoleon answers simply, decides he will drop the matter altogether. He feels that this is not the time nor place for lighting Illya’s fuse.

As he turns away and is about to leave, Illya stops behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Napoleon is almost tempted to shrug it off but remembers that he is not supposed to be the childish one of the two, not that Illya is, so he settles on ignoring it.

“Whatever is on your mind, we will talk about it later,” Illya says in a low voice as he squeezes Napoleon’s shoulder as an assurance. Napoleon merely nods, proceeds to grab his bag and jacket, the garment draped neatly on the back of his chair, but before he could open the door, Illya sighs and grabs his upper arm, leans in closer to his clearly upset partner.

“Solo, please. I don’t want you to leave knowing you are mad at me. There is nothing wrong, I promise you.”

Napoleon looks at the Russian, tries to grasp the words he is saying and wonders why the fuck he is feeling so terribly let down all of a sudden.

“I’m not mad at you,” he finally answers, mostly because he wants to be left alone with his somewhat self-inflicted misery.

“Are you sure?” Illya asks, his eyes narrowed, his voice serious.

Napoleon nods again. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Good, I will talk to you later then.”

Napoleon throws Illya another look before quickly exiting the office.

Once he is alone, Illya then turns his attention to his work again, forcing his mind off the issue. But Napoleon’s disappointed face keeps popping up in his head and the guilt he feels, knowing he had been the cause of it, gnaws at his insides.

 

***

 

A couple of hours after Napoleon had reached his apartment, he still could not get his thoughts off Illya.

_Why are you so mad about this? He probably really is busy and it has nothing to do at all with him trying to avoid you._

But the more Napoleon tries to rationalise things, the more irrational he becomes. It is definitely easier to jump to conclusions than go through the process of finding out why his partner is behaving the way he is. And wanting to clear his head from the swirling thoughts in his head, Napoleon then grabs his jacket from the back of the couch and heads for the door, thinking some fresh air would do him good. As he walks around his apartment block, towards the street, letting his feet simply take him to an unknown destination, the unwanted heavy cloud of his thoughts follows him all the way.

Why is Illya being so evasive? Napoleon worries the Russian is hiding more than he should.

It seems Napoleon had walked for ages and the thoughts are still nagging at him until he finds himself right smack in the heart of the city centre. Sighing, Napoleon checks at the time. The evening traffic is still bustling at the moment. Not wanting to dwell a minute longer in his own abject misery, he decides to drop by a coffee shop that he frequents, hoping a heavy dose of caffeine and not alcohol could clear his mind a little.

As he crosses the street towards the said coffee house, he sees a very familiar car parked at the curb of the road. It is Waverly’s. Napoleon could not miss the silver Aston Martin that he drives. But the Brit had left UNCLE’s building earlier after their meeting because he has an important appointment in Birmingham so seeing his car there raises a question in the American’s head. He takes a quick look at his watch again. It is half past seven. Waverly should not be here if what he had told him earlier was true. Walking closer towards his car, Napoleon then casts a glance towards the coffee house and his jaw drops at the sight in front of him.

At a table by the window are Illya and Waverly, seemingly in deep conversation.

 _‘Whatever happened to having to finish up his paperwork?’_ is the first thought that crosses Napoleon’s mind. The second is _‘why the hell didn’t he just tell me that he was meeting Waverly?’_ and _‘why is Waverly there if he had said he was leaving for some important meeting?’_. It would not have bothered Napoleon the slightest if he had known they were going to meet up. He feels a mix of emotions running through him, none of them making any sense. Illya had lied to him? But why would he do that?

Napoleon’s hands are shaking slightly as he disappears quickly around the block, not wanting them to see him there, staring at them through the window. He knows what he probably should do is to just go in there and ask Illya what exactly is going on, to avoid misunderstandings and such. Illya could have just met Waverly by coincidence as he got himself a cup of coffee and maybe Waverly had asked him to join him at his table. But that little rational thought is soon run over by the irrational ones. Because Waverly had said he was leaving for Birmingham, and even if he had cancelled his plans, neither Illya nor his superior live anywhere around this area so apparently they must have planned to meet up.

After much contemplation, Napoleon then decides to just leave.

 

***

 

Later that night, Napoleon’s mind is still on Illya and Waverly. It takes him several minutes to come up with something somewhat convincing to ask Illya after he decides he should give his partner a phone call. Drawing his breath, he closes his eyes and dials Illya’s number, not knowing what he wants to hear, the truth or a cover up story from the Russian when he asks Illya the questions swirling in his head. Deep down, Napoleon hopes he is only making a big deal out of something insignificant.

It is not like he is suspecting Illya and Waverly getting into anything. No, that is just impossible. But why didn’t Illya just tell him what his plans were?

It takes a while before Illya finally picks up the telephone.

“Hello?” Illya says and Napoleon takes in a breath.

“Hey, Peril, it’s me.”

“Cowboy,” Illya acknowledges him, sounding almost his usual self but Napoleon thinks he can hear the slight nervous tint in his voice.

“Just wondering what time you got back from the office.”

“I came home late. But managed to finish my paperwork as planned,” Illya states and Napoleon can hear some ruffling from the other end. He could feel his heart palpitating a bit as he is about to ask his next question.

“That’s good to know. You went straight home after that?” he asks, his clammy palm gripping the phone receiver tight. He presses it closer against his ear.

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

Napoleon closes his eyes and nods to himself hearing Illya’s reply.

“Nothing, just wondering what you’re up to. If you had left early we could have had that drink you had so aptly declined.”

“I told you I had lots to do, Cowboy, but maybe tomorrow we could.”

Napoleon stares at the ceiling above him. 

“Did you see Waverly at the office when you left?”

There is silence like Illya is contemplating an answer. And then the Russian says, “No I didn’t. You know he had left for Birmingham.”

“Yes, I guess,” Napoleon murmurs, closes his eyes again. He feels his heart sink.

There are a few seconds of static silence when neither men spoke.

“You okay, Cowboy?” Illya says eventually.

Napoleon releases a breath he’s been holding back. “Yes, I’m fine. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Peril. Goodnight.”

Once they end their conversation, Napoleon rakes his fingers through his hair, elbows leaning heavily against his knees. Illya had indeed lied to him.

What the hell is going on?

 

***

 

“Solo called you?” Gaby asks, taking a small sip of her tea as she listens to Illya’s agitated voice through the phone.

“Yes, he is starting to get suspicious. This is getting difficult, chop shop girl, I do not like it,” Illya sighs, looking out the window of his apartment, onto the empty street below. He knows Napoleon must be worried out of his mind, wondering what he is up to. He would really like to tell Cowboy, but no, not yet.

“Just be patient, Illya. It’ll be over soon,” Gaby tries to calm his nerves. “Solo will be fine.”

“I hate making him worry,” Illya croaks into the phone. “I am sure he thinks something is wrong.”

“Well I don’t doubt that but we’ve a perfectly good explanation for him when the time comes and he’ll see that he’d been worrying for nothing.”

Leaning his forehead against the cool glass window, Illya only nods in a helpless gesture knowing Gaby is right.

While the telephone conversation between Illya and Gaby is going on, Napoleon sighs as he stares at the ceiling in his living room. He has been staring at it for a good half an hour as if it is the most interesting thing in his apartment. And the silence is killing him, giving him plenty of opportunities to mull things over, slowly letting him drown in his own thoughts. He does not want to draw conclusions, not from so little evidence.

But evidence of what exactly?

Sensing that he is on the verge of diving into speculations again, he picks up his phone for the second time that night. He needs to talk to someone and there is really only one person he can rely on when it comes to the matter of _‘issues with Illya’._

He calls Gaby. Her line is busy and Napoleon tries a few times, starts to get agitated when he fails time and time again until he finally gets her on his seventh try.

“Hello?” he hears Gaby on the other side.

“Gaby, it’s me.”

“Solo? This is a surprise, you never call me this late.”

“Can’t I call a friend?” he says bluntly, fiddling absentmindedly with one of the cushion pillows on the couch, pulling at a loose thread. He wants to ask her about her busy line but decides not to. There is a more pressing matter at hand.

“Of course, you can, Solo. But usually, when you do this, something is bothering you.”

“You think?” Napoleon says and he could almost imagine Gaby’s little smirk hearing his annoyed voice.

“Okay, Solo, what’s bothering you? And don’t tell me it’s Illya.”

He could hear the hint of irritation in her voice and Napoleon smiles. He was definitely right when he had decided to tell Gaby about himself and Illya, the East German girl taking it all in her stride. And Napoleon is glad she does not judge them.

“Yes, it is Peril, as usual,” he sighs, the feeling of being completely lost creeping up on him again, dangerously fast.

“What’s he done now?”

Napoleon squirms. He has never found it that easy to talk about his ‘private’ goings on with Illya, but then again, he really cannot keep all of these doubts to himself anymore. He is going to go fucking insane.

“It’s more what he isn’t doing,” Napoleon begins and soon he has laid bare everything from the past week; the missing moments between them, Illya’s ignorance and his evasiveness, everything. Gaby says nothing throughout, just lets him ramble on.

“So, Gaby, what do you think? Am I just being stupid? Paranoid?” he asks finally, having pulled out a lot of threads from the pillow in his hand and it makes him wonder if he should just throw the now destroyed pillowcase right away. He decides to keep picking.

Gaby is silent for a few moments.

“Well,” she begins, “Solo, you sure you’re not overreacting a bit? I mean, of course, he shouldn’t have told you he was busy with work when in reality he was meeting Waverly, but he might’ve had his reasons? Maybe Waverly wants to discuss some secret assignment with Illya?”

“Without us? And like what secret assignment would that be? And why can’t he tell this to me?” Napoleon laments, chucking the destroyed pillow away onto the floor.

“Well, maybe Illya has his reasons,” Gaby says, tries to calm the American.

“What kind of reasons would that be?” he asks, glad he is sharing this with Gaby, even though it is making him more angry than frustrated.

“I don’t know, there could be many.”

Napoleon groans. “I bet there are and he can’t even let me in on one.”

“Hey listen, you clearly need to clear your head, Solo. Why don’t you ask Waverly if you could head off to New York earlier? Get away from this emotional mess you’re going through. Go and see your mom or something and then meet up with us when we get there,” Gaby suggests all of a sudden.

Napoleon tries to wrap his head around Gaby’s idea. Seeing his mother again would be rather nice, he has to admit. He has not seen her in ages. And maybe it is a good idea to get away from Illya. Maybe they need some breathing space from each other.

“Okay, I’ll talk to Waverly tomorrow,” he says finally, his mind already set on taking in Gaby’s suggestion.

“Don’t worry about it, Solo. I’m sure you’re worrying for nothing.”

“Maybe you’re right, or maybe, you could still be wrong, Gaby.”

“Solo, don’t speculate unnecessarily.”

“Okay, okay,” is the only thing he says, as if Gaby does not already know that he is being rather cynical.

“I’m just telling you what I think,” Gaby adds on. She could sense Napoleon’s nerves.

“I know, I know. I just…” he pauses, sighs, tries to regroup his thoughts, “it’s hard, okay? Sometimes I feel like maybe Illya doesn’t want this as much as I want it,” he continues, knowing that he has no excuse whatsoever for his reasoning.

“It won’t get any better if you keep having those stupid thoughts, Solo. But I’ll shut up now and let you think about it with a clear head because as far as I am concerned, Illya loves you,” Gaby says in a firm voice, making Napoleon smile.

“What would I do without you, Teller?” he murmurs and Gaby just giggles.

“You boys are just the biggest idiots I’ve ever met. Men are actually worse than women!”

The silence comes crashing back down on Napoleon after he had ended the call. Deciding he will just do what Gaby had suggested, he then prepares for bed, blocks himself from more unnecessary thoughts of Illya.

Yes, they definitely need a break from each other.

 

***

 

By the time he has done talking things over with Waverly the next day, the elderly gentleman had been fine with Napoleon leaving earlier for New York and Napoleon had fixed a flight leaving at ten the following evening. Napoleon had a good mind to ask Waverly about his so-called Birmingham trip but then decides otherwise. It really is pointless.

And then he had talked to Illya.

Well, not really talked. A monologue more like. And a short one at that. Illya had merely explained how much he had had to do lately and how much he really missed spending time with the American. Napoleon thought that was somewhat a good sign, because then, at least, it probably did not mean he was planning on breaking up with him, perhaps.

“Maybe tomorrow, we could meet up and have that drink, Cowboy. I could see you at your place, if you are still up for it,” Illya had said.

Napoleon had just shaken his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Peril. I’m leaving for New York earlier,” Napoleon added the last part as Illya looked at him in surprise. After they had started their _’thing’_ , Napoleon had never failed to tell him anything that he wanted to do and this was the first.

“You did not tell me this,” Illya had said, clearly stumped. “Why are you leaving earlier? Waverly asked you to do this?”

“No, no. Just wanted to see my mother, see how she’s doing,” Napoleon merely answered. “I’ll meet up with you and Gaby once you get there later during the week.”

Illya could only nod at Napoleon’s explanation. 

He feels a lot better afterwards after Gaby had explained to him what was going on with Napoleon but Illya is still feeling uneasy. His heart had pounded so hard against his chest, his fingers itching to grab hold of something to throw after Napoleon had left him alone.

Illya simply could not wait for tomorrow to come, so the charade he’s been putting up would be over.

 

***

 

Later that evening, Napoleon gets a phone call from Illya.

“You want me to drive you to the airport tomorrow?”

Napoleon raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised, kind of happy Illya had offered to drive him. It will probably be awkward as hell, but things could be worse.

“Okay, that’ll be great, Peril,” he answers and wonders after that whether he is doing the right thing.

 

***

 

The next day passes by in a blur.

Napoleon is missing Illya’s company terribly, but he cannot bring himself to pretend that everything is okay. Illya leaves him mostly alone, no doubt sensing that he is annoyed, but probably still believing it is because he has been so busy. Illya does show up at Napoleon’s place at half six to pick him up as promised and they do not say much on the way to the airport, not until Illya suddenly curses and slam a hand against the steering wheel, making Napoleon jump slightly in surprise.

“Peril? What’s the matter?” Napoleon asks.

“I’d left my wallet somewhere in my apartment,” he explains and Napoleon merely frowns. “I’ll drop by and get it. It will not take long. Cannot risk driving and getting caught without a licence,” he continues.

Napoleon just nods. He checks his watch and see they have plenty of time.

As Illya parks the car outside his apartment building, the Russian turns to Napoleon.

“You want to come up with me? Two people to search would be faster than one,” he continues, motioning for Napoleon to follow him. Napoleon shrugs before following Illya up the stairs to his apartment.

“Should be here somewhere,” Illya mutters as he turns the light on in his hallway, leaving his keys on the side table by the wall. “I will check the bedroom, you can check the kitchen, Cowboy,” he says and Napoleon wanders off without answering.

He enters the kitchen and turns the lights on, sighing. This is just too fucking stupid. Illya is never careless, not really. Pushing his uneasy thoughts aside, he continues searching high and low, on the counter, on top of the fridge, inside the fridge, just in case. He checks whatever is thrown in the mess at the corner of the table.

Nothing.

“It’s not here, Peril," he shouts as he turns the lights off, heading towards the living room. Illya’s apartment is not big, but it is still mighty spacious. He looks around the darkened room, silently wondering why the room is so dark and then—

_“Surprise!!”_

Napoleon is about to have a heart attack as the main sharp light is turned on.

It takes a good few moments before he realises what was going on and by the time, they have all started laughing at his reaction. There standing before him are Waverly and his favourite secretary, good old Miss Potts, and Gaby’s giggling like she can’t help herself, and even Agent James who frequently works with them is there, already on their way over to catch him in a huge bear hug.

“Happy birthday, Solo!” they say as they attack him, and all of a sudden, he is grinning awkwardly. He has been so caught up in his worry, he had forgotten his own birthday.

He looks up from their hugs and sees Illya, standing against the wall, hand still on the light switch, smiling at him. There is a somewhat large ‘Happy Birthday’ banner hung on the wall next to him with a Cowboy on a horse poster holding what he thinks is a very large piece of cake, and that, Napoleon has no doubt, must be Gaby’s doing. And that is when everything falls into place and he wants to die from embarrassment, wants to yell at Illya for being such a fucking good actor, yell at Gaby and his boss for playing along even better, and what he really wants to do at that moment is to simply walk over to Illya and kiss him senseless. Because, dear God, he has not done that in a week!

His emotions are all over the place as everyone finally let go of him. And after getting all the friendly hugs and pats on the back, not mentioning Miss Potts planting two big kisses on his cheeks, Illya is there, embracing him, and he is holding on so tightly he is afraid he will break Illya in two.

“Happy birthday, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs into his ear and Napoleon cannot make himself answer, just hugs him tighter.

 

***

 

The moment is nothing more than just that; a moment. And it is truly a moment Napoleon will not forget anytime soon. He never really bothered about his birthdays before this because it was just another reminder that another year of his life has passed by, but what a year it has been for Napoleon. After UNCLE, his life had truly changed. He has Gaby, and more importantly, he has Illya now. These people matter to him more than his own life and he has a boss he actually cares about, unlike the CIA and Sanders. Napoleon truly feels he is at a good moment in his life.

“Don’t worry about your flight to New York, Solo. I’ve made sure Miss Potts has made the necessary arrangements.”

“Thank you, sir,” Napoleon says, feels a little sheepish in front of the older man. He silently wonders if he knows about Illya and him.

The pleasant evening continues on and after everyone else has left, it’s finally just the three of them at Illya’s dining table. 

James had brought cake and Illya and Gaby had been in charged of drinks and some food. They continue to talk and dine but every now and then, Napoleon lets his mind wander and cannot help but feel foolish every time he thinks about his paranoid thoughts that had plagued him the past week. He really should let Illya know of his worry, that one day the Russian might actually leave him. What would he do if that time comes?

“Are you with us, Cowboy?” Illya says when he sees the American seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Napoleon only smiles. “Yes, I’m here, Peril.”

Gaby just gives them a knowing look. Soon, she has to leave as well because she knows her two favourite boys have a lot of catching up to do.

“Be nice to each other,” she warns, winking at Napoleon, and then at Illya, making his cheeks flush.

And Napoleon suddenly could not ever ask for anything more than this, two of the most important people currently in his life, together with him. He wonders whom he shall thank for all of this.

If he is honest with himself, he already knows.

“Illya’s been planning this for ages. He wanted it simple but I perfected it and yes before you ask, the decoration was my idea,” Gaby says with a wide grin on her face as she is about to leave. “And did I tell you not to worry, Solo?”

“Yes, you did tell me this, Teller. You are sneaky indeed,” Napoleon smiles, no doubt Gaby will not let this topic of discussion die anytime soon.

Once the door closes, and they are left alone, and before he knows what he is doing, Napoleon hurries across the floor towards Illya, literally throws his arms around Illya’s neck and attacks his lips in a mind-blowing kiss. Illya is quite taken aback for a moment before he is kissing him back, arms circling his waist. 

Fuck, Napoleon has missed this so much. Emotions get the better of him again as he pulls back and merely hugs Illya tight, sighing contently. Illya rubs small soothing circles across his back, their relaxed breathing calming him down somewhat.

“Thanks, Peril. You know you really didn’t have to do this,” he murmurs into his shoulder. “And I’m so sorry for being a complete dick about it,” he continues, voice low.

“Do not be, I was not really good at playing my role but Gaby convinced me,” he chuckles, pulling back to look Napoleon in the eyes. “I am sorry if I had you worried.”

Napoleon just nods. “You did, but it’s all good now,” he leans in and places a light kiss on Illya’s lips before pulling back. His eyes are glued to Illya’s and he cannot help but smile, the combination of wine, the ache in his chest and the feeling of being so content making him light-headed and absolutely careless.

“Damn, I feel old,” he says, like a mock complaint, and Illya rolls his eyes. “You are not old. Do not exaggerate.”

“I can’t help myself. I feel old.”

Illya quirks his lips. “Well, I still like you anyway.”

“I can’t believe you planned all this, Peril,” Napoleon says after that. “Even if it is too extravagant for your taste.”

“Like I said, I let Gaby take over everything.”

Napoleon laughs. “She’s got total control over you, do you know that?”

“No, not her, you know it’s not her.”

Napoleon hums. “Anyway, thanks again for the little surprise. I loved it.”

Illya just smiles as he steps closer. And then he is all serious.

“Do not think about it,” Illya murmurs, voice hoarse. “It is done. We have more important matters to take care of now.”

“What matters?”

Suddenly, before he can fathom Illya’s words, Napoleon lets himself be pinned to the wall by Illya's strong body, undeniable longing vivid in his blue eyes. Illya leans in to place a feather light kiss on his neck and the sensation of those lips gracing his skin has Napoleon trembling a little, his breath hitching.

Napoleon’s hands move around Illya’s waist, pulling their bodies closer together as Illya continues his ministrations up and down the American’s neck, breath moist and heavy, uneven and searching. He runs a hand up Napoleon’s neck, into his hair, holding him in place as he licks a wet trail along his jawline, the other hand running in small circles across Napoleon’s lower back. Napoleon feels himself giving up his restraints, however insignificant they were to begin with, eyes closing, mind shutting down, leaving his body to sort things out for itself.

“Peril,” he breathes, the syllables quivering as they pass through his parted lips, “the bed.”

“Yes, _that_ , but for now,” Illya growls, “I want to make you come here. Right here against this wall.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Napoleon moans.

“What is it, Cowboy? You don’t want this?” Illya presses himself even closer, reflexes and need taking over the control of his body. The way Napoleon knocks him senseless like this takes him by surprise every fucking time.

“Don’t stop...please,” Napoleon whispers, his hand finding the edge of Illya’s shirt before moving up under it and the feel of warm skin against skin makes his mind short circuit. His head falls back against the wall as Illya gently bites down at the soft spot beneath his ear.

“Fuck,” he curses again when he feels one of Illya’s hands cup against the front of his pants, the friction making him harden instantly.

“I thought about this all week,” Illya breathes against Napoleon’s ear as he strokes him gently through the fabric, the sensation sending Napoleon’s mind reeling, “Thought about nothing else, just how much I want you, want _this_ ,” he continues as he starts unbuttoning Napoleon’s shirt and soon his hand is running unchecked across his skin. “God, Cowboy, you always drive me crazy,” he murmurs, breathing hard against Napoleon’s neck.

“Keep talking,” Napoleon whispers, forcing Illya to look at him, their foreheads resting against each other.

Illya’s breath hitches as he stares into his amazing blue eyes, dark and dilated and so, so inviting, daring him to keep going.

“You like that? You like to hear how absolutely crazy I am about you?” Illya whispers, their lips ghosting against each other with every word. Napoleon smiles, almost mischievously, as he nods in agreement. 

“You like to know what control you have over me? Because you do, Cowboy, you can just do anything and I will literally be on my knees. Instantly.”

Illya notices with a smirk how Napoleon’s breath becomes more and more uneven and uncontrolled at the words dripping out of his mouth.

“You are constantly in my head, Solo. Always driving me mad with want, and if you think otherwise you are wrong,” Illya says, pauses, runs his tongue slowly over Napoleon’s parted lips before covering them entirely with his own for a quick hungry kiss, leaving Napoleon helplessly hungry for more.

His head is spinning dangerously fast and his body is going weak from all the mixed sensations; hands, lips, breath, scent, everything making him feel so fucking good and so absolutely at Illya’s mercy.

“You have any idea how hard it is for me the past week? To keep my hands off you? How much I just want you right there on the desk in our office? On the couch? How I am sometimes this far from snapping? From giving in? You have no idea, Cowboy.”

Napoleon looks positively smug at this and if Illya hadn’t known better, he would have believed that this was something Napoleon had planned long ago as a way to get him to admit how absolutely fucking lost he is without him. Illya moves his hand to unfastened his pants, undoing it in a few fast seconds, his fingers very familiar with it by now. Napoleon gasps out loud as Illya reaches inside, stroking him gently and agonisingly slow.

“You know how possessive I am of you, Napoleon. How much I want to show everyone that you are mine, you belong to me, and anyone else can just dream about ever touching you. Because if they put a hand on you, I will fucking kill them.”

Napoleon shudders at the intensity in Illya’s voice, at him calling his first name, understanding how sincere Illya is, understanding now how afraid the Russian is of losing him to someone else. How their situation is difficult enough as it is. The knowledge makes Napoleon dizzy and he wants to use it to his advantage, decides to push Illya a bit further.

“Even if I let anyone do it? During our missions, if I let our mark take advantage of me, would you mind?” he teases Illya, inhales sharply as Illya’s hand closes tighter around him, thumb circling the wet tip.

“If I told them it was okay to touch me like what you’re doing now? Told them I wanted it?” Napoleon continues with a small smile, trying in vain to catch his breath at the same time. This is bloody sweet agony.

Illya practically growls as he attacks Napoleon’s neck in answer, teeth scraping against his scorching skin. Napoleon pulls Illya closer, their bodies reacting instantly and the sudden desperation in every movement is almost enough to make him shut up, give in and let Illya have his way. But he is enjoying this a tad too much.

“What would you do, Illya?” Napoleon leans his head back against the wall again, eyes closed, hands roaming across the tensed muscles in Illya’s back, murmurs again, “What if I had someone else drive me crazy with want and told you how much I enjoyed it?”

He groans in surprise as Illya bites down again, harder this time. The tables have turned.

“Would you be angry?” Napoleon moans, fingers digging into Illya’s shoulders, “because you’d hate the thought of me with someone else, don't you? You won’t be able to stand it.”

The hint of an accusing tone in his voice is such an amazing turn on that Illya cannot help but grind harder against him. The sensation makes Napoleon groan and stiffen, incomprehensible words escaping his lips and it does absolutely nothing to calm Illya down.

Illya finds himself speechless at Napoleon’s goading, his words doing his head in, and instead of searching for his voice, he slams his lips on Napoleon’s, kissing him fiercely to shut him up. Napoleon wrenches his lips away moments later, staring into Illya’s eyes as he lets out small gasps of air, trying to calm his wildly beating heart.

“Show me how much you want me, Illya,” Napoleon says, his voice slow and breathy, eyes never leaving Illya’s, and Illya cannot help but admit to himself that he is on the verge of losing it. He swallows, feeling caught somehow. Fuck! How the hell did he slip up on control? Napoleon is sneaky for doing this to him.

He draws his breath, deciding that okay, fine. Napoleon has asked for it.

“You asked for this and you will get it, Solo,” Illya murmurs, his body shivering in answer to Napoleon’s small thrusts, silently reminding him that there is a third member wanting attention here. Napoleon leans in closer, kissing and licking Illya’s neck, nose nudging against his earlobe, eliciting small sounds of pleasure that leaves Illya mentally unhinged for more than a short moment.

“Show me,” Napoleon whispers, pressing Illya harder against him to emphasise his point.

The speed of his pulse is going to fucking kill him soon and the friction created by Illya’s hand is sweet poison to his nervous system. His mind disconnects completely and he does not care if he is loud enough, he just wants Illya to take him to that God-given place he is so close to.

“ _Please_ …keep going, Illya…don’t...don't stop,” he whispers, leaning his head back against the wall again, gasping for air.

Illya is positive that this is the most wanton he has ever seen Napoleon and dear God, he cannot take his eyes off him. Napoleon squirms against him as he works his magic and Illya knows he is right there. He runs a hand through his silky, dark hair as he leans in to kiss and lick at his neck, knowing exactly how hard Napoleon’s drugged senses will react to the touch. He inhales the heady scent of sweat, faint cologne and arousal and fuck, if that mixed with the rest of the setting, isn’t one of the sexiest things Illya can think about, he does not know what is.

“So close, Illya,” Napoleon practically purrs, voice trailing off, settling into breathy hums of pleasure, fingers digging into Illya’s neck and hip. Illya licks a wet path along his jaw line and then stops, lips close to Napoleon’s, uneven and short breaths mingling.

“Fuck, Solo. You are so beautiful when you come. Give it to me,” Illya whispers before claiming Napoleon’s lips in a deep, searing kiss, lips caressing each other hungrily, tongues fighting desperately, hands working urgently. Illya feels more than he hears, the soft moans from the back of his throat, Napoleon’s body freezing between him and the wall as Napoleon comes, warm, wet liquid covering Illya’s hand.

Illya keeps kissing him, swallowing the quiet gasps of sheer pleasure, holding Napoleon tight as he comes down from ecstasy. Soon Napoleon’s arms circles around Illya’s waist and holds him close as the kiss grows more passionate, their tongues caressing each other affectionately more than wrestling for dominance. Illya pulls away a bit and moves to lick at his fingers, the salty taste almost killing him. He smiles at the sated look on Napoleon’s face as he watches him.

“You back with me?” Illya murmurs as he wipes his hand quickly at the inside of his shirt. Napoleon smiles, shaking his head slightly.

“Not quite yet,” Napoleon exhales, raking a hand through his damp hair. “I’m still gone.”

Illya lets out a small grin, stroking absentmindedly at Napoleon’s torso. The thoroughly penetrating gaze Napoleon fixes him with makes his mind waver a little bit.

“Thank you, Peril. For letting me love you,” he whispers, taking Illya’s hands in his, their fingers intertwining. “I always thought maybe, you might not want this as much as I do.”

“You are stupid, Cowboy. How could I not want this?”

Illya kisses him hard on the lips, shuts Napoleon up. “You should not doubt me,” he says against his lips after that. “Never at all, Cowboy.”

Napoleon nods. “I’m sorry.”

“How did we ever manage before this?” Illya’s voice is low and he looks down at their hands.

The next thing he knows, Napoleon’s lips are upon his again, softly, almost achingly so, silently telling Illya that no, he does not know how they had managed before this either. Illya feels so at ease with him, in some measure, it scares him a little. Perfect things like this do not happen, yet it has and he is not sure what he has done to deserve it. But he is not about to complain.

Napoleon pulls away after a few long moments, tilting his head to the side, fixing Illya with an intense, questioning gaze.

“What?” Illya asks, somewhat cautious all of a sudden. That look means mischief.

“You really do not like anyone other than yourself touching me?” Napoleon asks, his face breaks into a lopsided grin as Illya lets out an exasperated sigh and then a slightly angry frown. He looks at Napoleon with intense eyes for a moment, contemplating if he is going to say anything or not. This could so easily end up the wrong way. They could end up arguing because Napoleon should know better than to push his buttons.

“If you want to live longer, you should not even contemplate it,” he says after a few silent seconds, a blunt edge to his voice, silently challenging Napoleon to make anything out of it.

“Although I might be more civil when it comes to these things, I don’t think I’d like the idea of you being with anyone else other than me either,” Napoleon practically smirks, licking his lips.

_So, Cowboy does have a jealous side too._

“That’s interesting, Cowboy.”

Napoleon nods and Illya can see the wheels turning in his head. As Napoleon leans in, Illya is sure he sees a flicker of recklessness in his eyes. “Do not get any ideas just to make me jealous,” Napoleon whispers before capturing his lips in another searing kiss and Illya is instantly beyond this world, puts aside the ideas he has in his head as he feels Napoleon's hands work at his buckle and zipper.

“There is a favour to be returned, Peril,” Napoleon grins.

“Okay,” Illya answers, groans a little too loudly when he feels Napoleon’s hand grasping around his cock.

For now, Illya will focus on this.

Maybe tomorrow, he will see how far he can push the American.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Napoleon Solo from the movie had his birthday earlier this month so I figured I will write a fic that has something to do with Solo's birthday.  
> 2\. The previous story (Not Broken, Just Bent) is told more from Illya's pov. This one is more from Napoleon's perspective. Hope you like this. :) & mistakes are all mine...


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